Wrong
by jAnon
Summary: Watson has the advantage of seeing Sherlock at the height of his powers, but Lestrade—he knows with the certainty of an eyewitness that Sherlock Holmes has been wrong.
1. Pink

It would never have worked.

Whatever they had had between them—if anything else had _been_ between them besides—well, he hasn't the slightest idea about the besides—it would never have worked.

Funny that's what he's reminded of when he gets back into the car. He's not the sort to mull over what's dead and done; he wouldn't be a DI if he couldn't let cases go, closed or cold. That's Sherlock's area—the obsessiveness.

Speaking of which—the man's having a fit upstairs, crowing about an early Christmas and the blessedness of four suicides. Bloody typical. He'd walked into Sherlock's flat, Sherlock had demanded "where," they'd had a little chat too close to bickering, and then he'd left without so much as an introduction to the man sitting in... well it was never his sofa. Just happened to sit in it a few times while they worked into the early morning hours on a few gruesome cases. He doesn't regret not having Sherlock's powers of deduction because in all honesty—he doesn't want to know. The poor fellow fit right in with the rest of the rubbish collecting in Sherlock's flat and that, more than anything, was how he'd known he'd be seeing more of the unfortunate sod's face in the future. And Sherlock would, as always, be sure to tell him all the gory details later, whenever it struck him.

Admittedly he was curious what line Sherlock had fed the man to get him to stay at all. Powers of deduction or not, Sherlock Holmes has always been a consummate liar. He has a taste for the overly dramatic; he's vain the same way all sociopaths are vain. And despite his self-declared freakishness and tactless behavior, Sherlock is fast and cocksure, and people are strangely attracted to such oddities—a fact of which Sherlock is keenly aware and takes advantage on a regular basis.

Thus, when Sherlock arrives on scene with the other one, it doesn't surprise him when he's given a sharp "he's with me" and expected to drop the subject. He restrains his reaction when Sherlock sticks his hand out like a magician ("shut up" "I didn't say anything" "you were thinking it—it's annoying"), and when Sherlock proceeds to over exaggerate all his motions for the benefit of the viewing parties. Lestrade lets him put on this show because he clearly has something to prove to the short fellow, who seems to think that Sherlock is trying to make a point to _him_—the upstanding, boring DI—despite the fact that they'd already worked together for five years and he was already too familiar with Sherlock's MO. He's seen the damn show a thousand times before, knows exactly when Sherlock's done with his examination and knows exactly if he's arrived at a useful conclusion. Which he has. The man looks like the cat that got the canary.

And, of course, Anderson can't resist chipping in his two cents on the matter. 'Rache'—_of course_ she's not German. It's all there, in the looks. Lestrade could never break it down to discrete traits like their resident motor-mouth, but he's got his own way of going about detective work.

He can't resist—it's out of his mouth before he think to stop himself.

"So she's German."

Lestrade learned early on in their relationship that it's safer to play the fool with Sherlock. Sherlock is like a child—contradict him, say something obviously stupid, and he's more likely to give a breathless explanation of his professional opinion in that superior tone of his. Otherwise he stays lost in his head, muttering under his breath.

"Of course she's not."

Sherlock falls for the ploy every time. Or at least lets himself fall for it knowingly every time—he'd figured the trick out soon after Lestrade began to use it, then began to use it himself during interviews.

"She's from out of town though, intended to stay in London for one night, before returning to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

Agreed, though he hadn't worked out the Cardiff bit. They'll have to corroborate with the credit card data before looking anyone up…

It almost feels as though nothing's happened, it's like old times again with Sherlock running his mouth and fooling around on his mobile when the man—Dr. Watson, as it turns out—interrupts the flow. Sherlock wants the doctor's opinion which is—raises the stakes somehow.

"We have a whole team outside—"

"They won't work with me."

And whose fault was that?

Never mind, there's no point in bringing that mess back up, but allowing this fellow—he doesn't even know what type of doctor he is—there's enough at risk as it is.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here."

"Yes. Because you need me."

The words hang between them. Dr. Watson looks at them both, clearly confused but clearly understanding that Sherlock is being a right bastard and pushing all the wrong buttons. Because that's the point—they _don't_ need Sherlock, they _haven't_ needed Sherlock, he's not some sort of essential consultant, everyone learns to pick their battles and content themselves with the clearance rates except, apparently, Sherlock bloody Holmes who had to make a big to do during the press conference in a childish bid for attention when this entire situation between them was Sherlock's fault in the first place. _Need_ him? Need _him_? The bloody hell they _need him_.

Sherlock is silent, determined not to say any more than he has to.

Well, there's a first for everything.

And it would never have worked.

It would never, _never_ have worked. Never mind the mass texts, never mind Sherlock was the one who contacted him when everyone on the team would rather that the psychopath consultant detective left them well alone. They had been managing superbly without him. He'd suspected by the second suicide that they were dealing with something repeated, if not serial, and he'd debated whether or not to contact Sherlock and bring him in on the matter.

'Because you need me'—the bastard.

In the end, this was what five years meant to a man like Sherlock Holmes, standing across from him at a crime scene with the weight of words heavy between them. Five years.

It would never have worked, and he refuses to look back.

But—

There's a dead woman in front of them, three other similar deaths, and the distinct possibility that a killer is still at large and waiting to strike for a fifth. There's also a leak in his crime unit—someone must be tipping off the press because otherwise, three seemingly unrelated suicides in random locations around London would not have been particularly newsworthy material. He wouldn't put it past Sherlock or Mycroft to have maneuvered him into this corner. With a fourth, they don't have the time to do it Anderson's way. There's a dead woman in front of him.

There's a dead woman, Jennifer Wilson, who loved the color pink, in front of him.

Damn Sherlock for manipulating him like this. Damn him. Damn himself for letting himself be manipulated. It would never have worked, but when it had worked, they'd been the best team in all Britain.

Everything hangs between them—and he wishes, for a brief second, that implicit within 'you need me' is also the statement 'I need you'—for what, he's no idea. But he knows Sherlock, and there's a dead woman in front of them both who cannot be raised from the dead and deserves a measure of justice.

'Because you need me.'

"Yes I do. God help me."

God help us all.

He absolutely refuses to look back. Out of the bloody question.

The bastard.

Since there's no stopping Sherlock when he wants something, Lestrade gives Watson his blessing, then goes outside under the pretense of giving orders to Anderson. It gives him a few moments to collect himself, pull on his usual detachment. The two of them are whispering over the body when he comes back in and Lestrade keeps his distance. He takes the opportunity to look—really look—at Dr. Watson.

The doctor seems competent enough. Less showy, direct, experienced. John Watson looks like a determined man. Loyal, compassionate—qualities Lestrade thinks he had when he first began this line of work. Former military by the way he holds himself, probably from a solid working class background. He seems familiar with dead bodies, he's got an efficient way of dealing with them. Asks the right questions—no doubt Sherlock picked up on that, else he'd never tolerate Watson's company. A man like him, they'd usually have put in a base hospital or in a medevac copter. But he's wounded, so it seems more likely he had been part of a company. The only question then—Iraq or Afghanistan?

It occurs to him that Sherlock asked the same question, using a different line of reasoning. More empirical, less intuitive. They'd had the argument more times than he cares to remember.

"Yeah. Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit."

Sherlock looks at Lestrade—'he's with me' clear in his eyes. Watson is totally oblivious.

"Can't smell any alcohol on her, could have been a seizure, or possibly drugs."

"You know what it was, you've read the papers."

"Or she's one of the suicides—"

And there's the conclusion Sherlock was looking for. There isn't time for this nonsense.

Two minutes, and Britain's fastest talker is off to the races.

"Victim is in her late thirties, professional person going by her clothes, I'm guessing something in the media going by the frankly alarming shade of pink—"

In retrospect, he's surprised that he and Sherlock lasted as long as they did, given the disagreements that became clearer as time went on. The doctor responds to Sherlock in a completely different manner from Lestrade—the man is almost… encouraging. He assumes his own stupidity and asks Sherlock to explain outright the justification for his answers. Amazingly, Sherlock gives an answer, like a precocious teacher's pet. Watson never challenges Sherlock's rapid-fire conclusions, as though he implicitly believes in Sherlock's system of deductions. The doctor is star-struck, and Lestrade wonders how quickly it will wear off.

"Oh for god's sake, if you're just making this up—"

That was the problem—well, part of the problem. A small part. The luster, the magic of Sherlock's deductive powers no longer worked on Lestrade. He's not sure if that kind of amazement had ever really been there. When they'd met, he and Sherlock had been younger—enthusiastic and brilliant, but still slightly greener behind the ears. He'd been at that point in his career where he was experienced enough to take on the strange and difficult cases, but not so experienced that he'd been hardened to the sight of dead bodies. As for Sherlock—the enterprise had been new enough that Sherlock hadn't been bored by them. Yet.

"It's brilliant!"

"Simple."

"Sorry."

"Cardiff."

He's seen the mistakes Sherlock's made. He'd been there while Sherlock had still been in the process of refining his methodology. Watson has the advantage of seeing Sherlock at the height of his powers, but Lestrade—he knows with the certainty of an eyewitness and a partner that Sherlock Holmes is fallible. Like any method of solving crimes, there are assumptions that Sherlock makes and those assumptions can unhinge the entire line of rationalizations. Sociopath he may be, genius he may be, but he is not superhuman. Sherlock Holmes deduces, concludes, analyzes. He is quick and intelligent.

"Dear god, what is it like in your funny little brains, it must be so boring."

He also lies, he guesses, and he has been wrong. And he will never admit it. Anderson would have been more forgiving if Sherlock had admitted it, but Sherlock hadn't seen why he should. He hadn't been wrong, he'd said. He would—in his own words—rather be dead than wrong. Which was the heart of the matter: it hadn't _been_ Sherlock who'd died. It never was.

This analysis Sherlock spouts—Lestrade compiles, out of habit, a list of doubts that Sherlock wrote off as irrelevant or simply overlooked out of hubris:

Alarming shade of pink does not imply she worked in the media, perhaps the woman liked pink—common among females, matter of personal taste (relevance?). Overattribution of significance to clean jewelry, possible (though sounds unlikely) she forgot to clean the ring. Dry umbrella etc mostly sound, still possible that umbrella not in use because both hands had been occupied (with what). Dampness of suit jacket interesting—shouldn't she have dried off by now? Narrows timeframe—clothes rarely stay wet three hours, especially if she was in the rain for a few minutes. Suitcase, but even more—if this is a murder where's the woman's purse. If suicide or murder, why found with credit cards but not any sort of identification. Serial adulterer possible connection with first suicide/murder? If 'Rachel' and suicide, why did she wait until dying to scratch it out. If 'Rache' and suicide, why German, revenge against whom. If 'Rachel' and murder, why no sign of struggle ingesting poison. If 'Rache' and murder, why German, is she an object of someone else's revenge—serial killer a jealous boyfriend, husband, other.

"Now where is it what have you done with it."

"There wasn't a case."

"Say that again."

"There wasn't a case, there was never any suitcase."

He doesn't bother to point out these possibilities to Sherlock. Sherlock's already chosen his line of investigation—his mind works that way. Examine the base of facts, build a hypothesis, pursue that hypothesis until proven right. It's not _de_duction, but _in_duction. Besides, five years—Sherlock could probably quote Lestrade's arguments back to him and in the end it amounted to the same thing: Sherlock had been right, by some miracle, and he didn't care about the rest. Anyway, it was Lestrade who'd have to do the write-up.

"Serial killers are always hard, you have to wait for them to make a mistake—"

"We can't just wait."

"No we can't wait, if you look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake!"

Strange turn of phrase. When had he started saying that?

In the end, Sherlock gets what he what he came for—the glowing admiration of one Dr. John Watson and the discovery of what he considers a major mistake by the serial killer. Lestrade gets two tips that may or may not lead to anything: the existence of an overnight case and the possibility of 'Rachel.' Sherlock, predictably, goes off to find the case (pink, he'd known the man long enough to follow his disjointed train of thought) and leaves the boring task of finding Rachel's identity and connection to Jennifer Wilson to Lestrade. As always.

They both, as it turns out, forget about Watson. Sherlock running off to chase a suitcase, Lestrade to do his job. It's clear Watson hasn't the foggiest what's happening but that's not Lestrade's problem. He calls in Anderson and the rest of his team. The doctor wobbles downstairs to join Sherlock's mad hunt. He hopes—truly and sincerely—that Dr. Watson can keep up with Sherlock. Sherlock has always denied it, but even sociopaths need friends. Or least a captive audience to impress.

It would never have worked between them. Objectives, points of view—they could never see eye to eye. Sherlock never took kindly to doubt or criticism of his method. Or the incontrovertible proof that he'd been wrong. And the mess of the past besides.

Watson, on the other hand, has a fair chance. Tabula rasa, that sort of thing. Donovan might take it in her head to drop pointed hints, but he trusts her not to give details—it's not her or any of their places to say, after all. Despite everything that happened, he's relieved that Sherlock has someone, and that that someone is by all appearances a good man.

As for him—them—whatever they'd been—it's over.

Unless Sherlock really needs him for a case, he's assigning someone else. Put in a recommendation to promote Dimmock to DI, he's young. Let him deal with the madness that follows Sherlock. The experience will be good for Dimmock, maybe even teach him something useful along the way. And Dimmock won't let Sherlock run roughshod over him without putting up a good fight.

It's settled, then. Another load of paperwork he needs to file. Then of course there's the case. He envies Sherlock's ability to get excited about cases still. To Sherlock, it's simply a grand puzzle. The game, as he was fond of calling it. It's his thrill—it's a _mystery_, not a crime that includes court appearances, official documentation of evidence, bookings, press releases, weekly meetings with division superiors, training sessions, time clocked at the shooting range, mindless hours sifting through piles of records, knocking on doors to sort out domestic disputes. It's why Sherlock is consultant, and not detective inspector. He hasn't the patience.

Lestrade, as it turns out, hasn't the enthusiasm. Not anymore. He's devoted to his job, it's the bedrock of his existence, but his hair is grey where Sherlock's has remained black.

It really is over. This is the last case he's working—really working—with Sherlock Holmes.

God help him—how had it come to this?


	2. Noise

Noise.

So much noise.

So much noise as to drive a man mad. It was an affliction—a higher rate of suicide in those suffering from tinnitus because they could not bear the noise. _That_ was the essential problem in the scientific/forensic method of solving mysteries. The noise of it all.

Mysteries, not crimes. For a crime might occur but the parties involved may not be a mystery. No mystery, no problem—no problem, no interest—no interest, no thrill. Instead, an intense, pressing desire for something to occupy the mind, preferably stronger than nicotine, but one makes do.

For example, one might be working with a sample of blood found on the left collar of a fifty percent polyester track shirt worn by a jogger, female, one point six two meters, fifty-seven kilograms, blonde hair with highlights, found under a park bench with her neck snapped at the C4 vertebra and the natural questions the police ask are—is this her own blood, or is it the blood of her killer, can we take it down to the lab and extract something useful from it such as the identity of a possible suspect or perhaps an accomplice—but working with that sample of blood one finds there is not nearly enough substance to run the necessary tests to determine the identity of anyone or anything and if such tests were to be undertaken the processing and interpretation and certification of the results might take days because the laboratory assistants are behind schedule by which time the criminal may have hopped, skipped and made a convenient jump from Heathrow to John F. Kennedy airport and the extradition paperwork takes another few weeks by which time the killer has engaged a lawyer who charges not a set fee, but by the hour and it's no trouble because the killer also happens to be the son of the former chief executive officer of a high profile financial organization and in the interest of maintaining affable relations between the two powerhouses that are New York and London finance, the case is sealed and filed away as unsolved, leading to an unhappy police force and a bereaved mother, father, and younger brother who decide to take their story to the papers and stir scandal, by which time Mycroft's mobile explodes with a thirty-seven messages because the entire ordeal is an embarrassment for both the American and British governments and it would be best kept quiet, and for that reason he makes the decision to retrieve a certain relation from the cell in which that relation was comfortably sitting, serving an indefinite amount of time for hacking into the MI5 servers and retrieving national security files to prove that one could.

Now—noise.

The essential question is: was the blood on the left collar of the track suit relevant to the case? A simple guess by an average person with some notion of how one goes about solving these things would yield the answer, yes, it is relevant to the case and yes, it will be useful. Well, perhaps it is, perhaps it isn't, perhaps it was deliberately placed on that left collar by the killer to lead the police on a merry chase by which time the killer would be safely ensconced in a their five hundred and fifty six square meter penthouse. The point is noise. Noise is not important if one assumes that there is an infinite amount of time and laboratory resources in which to solve a case—it would simply become an exercise in waiting for the centrifuge to stop spinning. An assembly of the data and it is commonly assumed by the general public that the picture becomes immediately clear, when this is never the case. Data must be interpreted, data has the potential to generate more noise, data has the potential to be a dead end or a false lead. Furthermore, one does not have the luxury of an infinite amount of time to solve a case because there are four other folders needing immediate attention on the DI's desk, ranging from an ongoing investigation of drugs smuggling to a tip concerning the strange Arabic-sounding music playing in the flat next door. Thus, the key is time.

When tracking a mystery, especially in a city such as London, noise increases with time. Time spent on listening to noise is time well wasted. Distinguish between signal and noise and one has already solved a third of the riddle. One is set against time because there are certain signals which are time-sensitive, and there are certain noises that grow stronger as more time progresses. Working with a skewed data set is never pleasant, working with an old data is also unpleasant. In the case of the track suit jogger above, if the investigators had immediately noticed that the suit had been placed on the body after death, as evinced by the peculiar crease patterns, and examined particularly the jogger's shoes, laced too tightly by a man who liked triple knots, the identity of the killer would have been obvious (proof omitted, left as an exercise to the students. Hint: consider the ingested ostrich burger). Obvious from a single thorough examination of the crime scene and a few well considered enquiries put to the dead woman's secretary—and then the entire ridiculous aftermath involving thirty-seven messages and retrievals of familial relations would not have occurred.

Of course, the case of the track-suit jogger was a crime, but hardly a mystery. A scene that requires one glance and three questions is not a mystery. It was rather insulting that the incident which should bring Sherlock Holmes from incarceration in a classified intelligence cell to a sort of modified house arrest was a crime but in no way a mystery and in his opinion, only went to illustrate the dismal state of Scotland Yard. They were as hopelessly mired in their own stupidity as they had been two hundred years previous. Sherlock thought he might prefer incarceration, and if it hadn't been for Mycroft's rather pointed insistence he would have stayed.

The point: he was flung out into the wide, noisy world and told to assist Detective Inspector Lestrade in his investigations for at least two years. Sherlock himself thought it was a rather harsh sentence to be subjected to such constant tedium. Lestrade made it clear that he disliked the assignment as much as Sherlock but, having been recently promoted and eager to establish a reputation for himself, he was determined to make the best of things. The man was not intelligent but he was not stupid as far as Scotland Yard types went, nevertheless Sherlock found Lestrade positively dull, and the work moreso. As cases flowed in, the problem of noise and time presented itself rather quickly in this context, and Sherlock rediscovered his favorite game of childhood: I Spy.

He spied with his remarkable, brilliant, and absolutely extraordinary eye details no one else thought to consider important, details which seemed to others completely incidental and subjective in nature, but it allowed him to circumvent almost entirely the time consuming process of forensic science and the general monotony of interviewing suspects, witnesses, and relations. He found that interviews and forensics only added to the noise, introduced unnecessary uncertainties when everything that was needed was written in the crime scene. That was his hypothesis—the brilliance of his new science of deduction. Lestrade, of course, blind clod that he was, did not believe him. He couldn't follow Sherlock's process, and being trained in the traditional schools of investigatory method, he thought the premise of the hypothesis was ridiculous. The choice of a fellow's ringtone did not mean he was having an affair with his manager's wife, he'd objected. Besides which the evidence would never hold water in court.

Lestrade entirely missed the point. Sherlock did not care about the conviction or the sentence—only of finding the right answer. He'd retorted that so long as they found the right answer, they could reverse engineer the crime and find the salient data points to create an argument anyone with half a brain could win—thus, all parties would be satisfied. Except Sherlock, for a solved mystery meant the cessation of all interesting intellectual activity and onset of boredom.

The DI had been speechless, sputtering first at the thought that Sherlock did not care about crime, but about mystery. And it was true—crime and mystery are two separate categories which people, thanks to popular novels concerning unsolved criminal mysteries, were too eager to conflate. He was not interested in crime, he had never taken the slightest interest to law or contemporary criminal justice systems. The only thing that mattered was the game—playing it fast, and getting it right.

Like most games worth playing, there were levels of mastery. The first level was to deal with the problem of noise and to find an empirical means by which to solve a case in under thirty-six hours. It was appalling that cases sometimes took detectives days to solve.

His answer: the science of deduction. It required evidence, it required logic and keen powers of observation, it may or may not require a few questions directed towards select parties related to the crime scene, but it did not require an army of forensic twats who waddled in their sterilized blue suits armed with cotton swabs and plastic totes. In some cases, he posited that he could solve the crime from the convenience of his sitting room sofa, looking at a few high definition photographs of the crime scene and asking less than ten questions. Lestrade, never one to disappoint, threw down the gauntlet and challenged Sherlock to prove it.

Which he did, of course. Much to the frustration of Lestrade.

Therefore, the problem of noise—he solved it. Elegant, neat, efficient solution. It also temporarily solved the problem of his perpetual boredom, as he limited himself to three questions and four photos, or five touches and four minutes, or two glances and five statements. The rush was exhilarating, almost equal to the task of distracting him from his addictions. The only disadvantage seemed to be that one was required to be a genius in order to use this new method he'd invented.

He didn't mind.

It was brilliant, being a genius.


	3. Shoes

The problem is that people forget their shoes.

Trainers, boots, stilettos—he knew some women who dearly loved their Pradas or what have you—the fact remained that people, no matter how much they might obsess over footwear, are forgetful and have been known to forget their shoes.

That was the crux of the issue.

Sherlock had been needling him about the Carl Powers case—a case of which Lestrade had never heard and didn't bother to look up, since Sherlock seemed to know all the salient details—the man had the whole of Britain's bloody case ledger in his head—trying to make the argument that Carl Powers had not drowned in a pool but had been murdered. The entire argument rested on the detail that the boy's shoes were missing and Lestrade's entire counterargument rested on the well established phenomenon that people forget their shoes. Forget their keys, their wallets, their mobiles, laptops, favorite toys left behind in parks, books forgotten in schoolrooms, coffee, bagged lunches, incriminating articles of clothing, the milk, the sugar, the shopping—no matter the relative importance or unimportance of an object, something would slip between the cracks, people got distracted, and as a result an entire wealth of objects were regularly forgotten by all sorts in all places on a daily basis. Did he need to elaborate? A child might very well forget his favorite trainers and still drown in a pool without it being murder.

Neither could convince the other of the soundness of their respective arguments. Lestrade suspected that all of the grandiloquent sentences merely covered up Sherlock's obsession with the case—quite frankly, he sounded like a conspiracy theorist, reading so much meaning into the most superficial of details. In Lestrade's experience, the simplest answer was usually the right one. A woman is found in her flat dead as a result of several violent knife-wounds? Jealous boyfriend. Nigerian woman dumped in a back alley with a bullet between her eyes? Drugs. Pakistani restaurant owner missing a tongue, two fingers, strangled to death? Hate crime. Granted, his rule concerning the simplest answer was an approximation, not a direct correlation but in his experience, most people did not set out to be criminals, much less murderers. The simplest answer was the right one because people became too careless—or too careful—when they commit a crime. Also, human motivations are consistent and usually transparent. Guilt is easy to read. The difficult part of a solving a crime was not necessarily finding the criminal, but obtaining a confession to ensure an easy trial and a solid conviction. That, or collecting and organizing the necessary evidence.

Was it surprising then that Scotland Yard overlooked details and sometimes came to the wrong conclusion? No. However, their method worked most of the time—in fact, it worked most of the time for most of the law enforcement in most of the world—and what worked most of the time worked for Lestrade as well. Apparently, the existence of such errors was anathema to Sherlock. The existence of wrongness in the world—not wrong in the sense of injustice, but wrong in the sense of two and two is five—seemed to bother Sherlock to no end. He took it rather personally.

Lestrade was willing to listen to—well, if not listen, at least play devil's advocate with—Sherlock, whatever cracked theories the man had to offer. Every time, the issue boiled down to the fact that people forget their shoes. People do things and sometimes there is no good explanation for it. It doesn't mean anything other than the fact that it happened, just as things happen every day in the wider world without rhyme or reason. So he took his coffee one morning with sugar and cream—it didn't mean he'd solved the Candleson case, it meant he'd felt like coffee with sugar and cream that morning. Sherlock countered that Lestrade never took coffee, much less coffee with sugar and cream, which meant he'd run out of tea at his flat and hadn't bothered to buy any at the grocers, which meant he'd worked on the case after hours, and the cream and sugar was a sort of reward the next morning for successfully coming upon the solution, otherwise the coffee would have been black. Lestrade countered _that_ particularly asinine train of reasoning saying that Sherlock had the most complicated way of telling someone that they'd been chipper in the morning. And yes, he had solved the Candleson case the night previous, but he still maintained that there was no causality between that and his taking coffee with cream and sugar. He didn't go to the grocers because he'd been working on the case, but he always forgot to go to the grocers anyway. Married to the work, and all.

Besides which, he pointed out that Sherlock's conclusion was based on knowledge of Lestrade's habits—knowledge that he could not simply induce by staring very hard at a crime scene. Sherlock stated mulishly that he could, that Lestrade and the rest of the world were blind and it was a travesty to be such a brilliant man in such a stupid world. But Lestrade, never one to let things go because Sherlock was on the verge of throwing a tantrum, pressed the issue because it was a fair and important and _crucial_ question: if Sherlock's method depended on the assumption that people are creatures of habit, if he claimed that anomalies are not simply accidents but contained reasoned and deducible causes, if the entirety of his conclusions rested on the study of things such as a missing pair of shoes—then how could he account for the fact that people forget their shoes? People have habits, but these habits are broad. People do things for reasons, but they have been known to break them. If in Sherlock's world noise is signal and signal is noise, what is the base against which Sherlock makes this distinction, and what prevents everything from becoming signal or everything becoming noise? Either way, nothing can be known and nothing can be solved.

Sherlock argued that forgetfulness is itself a habitual behavior and can be accounted for in one's estimation of a person's routine. That only led to questions about how to go about distinguishing the difference looking at a dead body at a crime scene, which led to questions about models of human behavior, which led to the fundamental divide between them:

Lestrade believed in chance. His worldview was built on the assumption of the sheer chaos and randomness of human activity, which may at times be predictable but was never completely knowable. Anything claiming to have made sense of the mad world was just another kind of meteorology. Sherlock, on the other hand, vehemently disagreed—it was simply a matter of "had not accounted for," as if people were ledgers and crime the sum of a corporate conspiracy. He contended that if one isolated all the variables that governed physical existence and found their appropriate equations, he could write the program to simulate the history of the universe. Never mind entropy and Heisenberg and all that blather about free will—chaos and uncertainty were built into the system, and therefore as a system it was statistically maneuverable and therefore everything was ultimately accountable. Lestrade raised all the usual objections people brought up with respect to a worldview that sounded suspiciously like determinism, namely, how did anyone go about isolating those variables and finding the equations? Scientists of all stripes had been trying for centuries to do exactly what Sherlock described and to Lestrade, there was no real reason to think that humans, let alone the universe, could be written in numbers. More important—what did Sherlock mean, 'never mind free will'? Sherlock replied that he wasn't a determinist; he thought everything could be accounted for. There was a subtle difference that he didn't expect an idiot like Lestrade to understand. And _what about_ free will? It was irrelevant for his purposes. Crimes were committed, which left mysteries there for the solving and that was all he really cared about.

Free will irrelevant to crime? Was that really what Sherlock thought? Then was he saying that the motive for committing the crime—the _choices_ made behind the decision to kill a person—didn't matter in his investigation? That was impossible, literally impossible. Half of solving cases was in making guesses about the psychology of the criminal, but Sherlock simply wrote it all off as a matter of accounting? Sherlock replied that no, the choices and motivations were all part and parcel of the accounting. Did it matter whether or not there was actually free will when clearly, most people went about acting as if there were? One took that into account and proceeded accordingly. Therefore, having already made the necessary adjustments for the likelihood of missing shoes, Lestrade's insistence on forgotten shoes was rendered moot and Carl Powers had been murdered. The accounts didn't tally, which meant there was something else underfoot and that something was a murderer.

Which placed them squarely back where they had started, possibly even more entrenched in the conviction of their own rightness. Lestrade believed that humans as a species were consistent, but people were not, and humans as a species were incomprehensibly complex, but people often were not—especially people committing crimes. Crime was habit, or emotion, or random. Sherlock had no real opinion about humanity—the species was generally made up of excruciatingly boring specimens—and but individuals could be fascinatingly interesting in the way they built their lives and left signs of it everywhere. In his view, crime was the sign of a criminal.

It was an impasse they never crossed and perversely enjoyed never crossing. Lestrade maintained that as much as Sherlock tried to justify his method in empiricism and all-but-determinism, his strange genius knew no method. True, Sherlock might examine details in a highly logical and analytic way, but he was hard pressed to explain why he chose those details to examine. No one but Mycroft could replicate Sherlock's train of thought because it was based on a powerful intuition of where to look and what to look for. So now that his coffee was cold, he was going to stop arguing with a brick wall and get a proper cup of tea. With milk, Sherlock predicted. Lestrade told him to shut up.

Sherlock was privately surprised by Lestrade's intellectual capability—something he consistently overlooked while working with the man. Lestrade was by no means brilliant, and there was usually only evidence of a middling sort of mind. None of his counterarguments were particularly original or inspired. But the man had an unparalleled sense of knowing when something was missing—which was why it was especially maddening that Lestrade insisted on writing off Carl Powers as a case of forgotten shoes when it clearly was not. Sherlock recognized, of course, that the problem wasn't that Lestrade doubted the evidence, but what that evidence _meant_. He refused to concede that Lestrade might be right. Because he wasn't.

However, despite the fact that Lestrade could not find the right answer in that inimitable way that Sherlock went about it, he had to concede that Lestrade could be relied upon to spot all the inconsistencies that made an answer wrong. It was a trait at once aggravating and admirable since he had no compunctions about blowing holes into Sherlock's logic or the prevailing wisdom of Scotland Yard, no matter how he might defend the Met in front of Sherlock. A crime might be all but solved, the evidence might be all but air-tight with the accused safely locked away awaiting trial, and Lestrade would find some detail that unraveled the entire case. Sherlock himself liked to do this on a regular basis, looking over closed files and gleefully pointing out the mistakes to prove Scotland Yard's collective stupidity. But Lestrade did this out of a sense of duty and a devotion to justice. He pursued the right answer because he believed it the right thing to do. It baffled Sherlock, as that was tantamount to saying that one studied mathematics because one believed it would make the world a better place. Mathematics did not need to be justified—it was studied because it yielded interesting results. Likewise, solving murders yielded interesting results.

It would wear Lestrade down someday, Sherlock realized. He knew. He could predict this eventuality appearing in the future course of their working partnership not out of a refined understanding of Lestrade but objective observation. The hitching of Lestrade's shoulders said everything anyone needed to know. Faith for a cause—this idea of justice—that could never win, or even end, was a destructive at best, disheartening at worst. Sherlock derived intellectual satisfaction from achieving the correct solution. It was all he needed, and the reason why he had agreed to the arrangement in the first place. Lestrade however, relied on his work to provide emotional satisfaction—a sense that in some incomprehensible way, he had contributed to making the world a better place. Safer for schoolchildren, old ladies with their tea cozies, the like. Though he'd never say it, Lestrade believed in justice and believed in systems of justice the same way most people trusted the police. That Sherlock did not share this conviction was incredible to him. It was only a matter of time before the issue would become a thing of contention between them.

What Sherlock had not considered and once again underestimated was the degree to which he would be affected by Lestrade's disappointment when they would finally part ways. Five years, it would seem, could change a man from mere sociopath to high-functioning sociopath.

And then there was Watson.


	4. Clever

"Good evening, Mrs. Hudson."

"Good evening, may I help you?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he reached to flash his badge and—_damn_ Sherlock, he'd lifted it again. That was what, the twelfth time in five years? "This is Sgt. Sally Donovan."

Donovan, Anderson, and the rest of the ad-hoc drugs squad backed him up.

"Has something happened?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her face pinched with worry.

"We're here to search Sherlock's flat, may we come in?"

"Is he in trouble?"

"We can't say, ma'am," Donovan replied, voice forbidding but expression kind. "If you'll let us through, we won't be long—we don't want to be an inconvenience to you. Is he in?"

"No, Sherlock, he comes and goes, I never know where he is." Mrs. Hudson looked torn between opening the door to the nice young lady or obeying Sherlock's orders that no one was to enter his flat without his express permission.

Donovan gave him a significant look. Mrs. Hudson caught it.

"Oh dear, oh—his flat's right up the stairs," she said, swinging the door wide and leading them up. She pulled out her set of keys but hesitated unlocking the door. "Ought I not to call him?"

"No, everything's in order, we'll take it from here, Mrs. Hudson," he replied. "If you'll just open the door for us, we'd be much obliged to you."

He smiled tightly, his 'I don't like this any more than you and I'm sorry it had to be this way' smile. She capitulated.

Door open, Sherlock's flat, and there was the bloody case. Open, the contents thoroughly disturbed. Anderson cursed. Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened and she seemed to shrink into herself. Lestrade motioned to Donovan to take care of her, as she had done nothing to deserve Sherlock's problems. Donovan made short work of it, closing the door behind her and escorting Mrs. Hudson back to her rooms. He could hear her reassuring Mrs. Hudson in that short, direct way she had. He turned to Anderson.

"See what you can salvage from this."

Anderson had already snapped on his gloves and was carefully examining the exterior of the case.

"There won't be anything to salvage, unless you want me to find how many sets of prints he's left this time."

"Just—see what you can do. The rest of you," he raised his voice, "I don't want anything stolen, or broken. Is that clear?"

Various noises of assent. Donovan returned. Seeing Anderson scowling at their missing piece of evidence, she turned to Lestrade, anger clear in her eyes.

"Unbelievable. This is how he thanks you?"

"Leave it, Donovan."

"He'll only disappoint you. One day, we're going to come in here and he's going to have committed the crime."

"_Leave_ it."

"You know that's not a bad idea," Anderson said, picking through the contents. "Who's to say he didn't kill Jennifer Wilson? He's got her case, he's been tampering with the investigation, bothering us ever since the press conference—"

"Have you found anything? Anything that might help us catch the killer?"

"Pink shirts, pink knickers, pink lingerie," Anderson glanced at Donovan. "Toiletries, nothing unusual. I can't see anything I'd have to look into at the lab."

"What about Rachel?"

Anderson shook his head.

"A phone?"

"If it was there, _he's_ probably got it," Donovan answered.

"Bloody hell," Lestrade sank into Sherlock's sofa.

Anderson and Donovan looked at each other, looked at him. He shook his head and made a vague motion towards the mess of Sherlock's kitchen. They didn't say anything, thankfully, and went to join the rest of the team ransacking Sherlock's flat. Anderson, he knew, would search for signs of Sherlock's odd experiments. Donovan had on her face an expression of disgust, as if she wanted nothing more to do with Sherlock or his life. She regarded everything with suspicion, but she was also watching to keep the squad in line. Some of these officers Sherlock had gone out of his way to antagonize. They might be a bit too enthusiastic about revenge.

There was nothing left to do but brood and wait for Sherlock. He'd reviewed the case a thousand times in his mind and could turn up nothing fresh. As always, he knew every detail front to back and was at that point where nothing made sense and each idea became more outlandish than the next. Jennifer Wilson, Rachel, dead child, unhappy marriage, murder/suicide, missing pink case, why was this particular murder the mistake…

He didn't know how much time had passed before he heard the door open. Donovan caught his eye and frowned—she'd heard the noise below too. He shook his head and remained seated. The team took their cue from him and went about their business, as if rifling through Sherlock's cupboards for the fun of it was nothing extraordinary. Lestrade concentrated, listening. Sherlock hadn't burst through the door yet, he was lingering out in the hall. Why, he didn't venture to guess. One, two voices and laughter. The door opened and closed again, there was shuffling and—there. Sherlock taking the stairs two at a time, and the footsteps of Dr. Watson behind him.

The door opened and Sherlock immediately zeroed in on Lestrade.

"What are you doing."

"Well I knew you'd find the case, I'm not stupid."

It was a testament to his team's professionalism, he thought, that none of them had reacted at all. They were looking the other way. Dr. Watson hung back near the door.

"You can't just break into my flat!"

"You can't withhold evidence—and I didn't _break_ into your flat."

"Well what do you call this then?"

Sherlock was in a right tiff.

Lestrade made as if he were looking about for the first time. He wasn't a quick thinker, but he always had an alibi when it came to Sherlock.

"It's a drugs bust."

Sherlock's expression froze. Watson—

Right. So. Sherlock conveniently hadn't mentioned it. Slipped his mind, hadn't got around to it, wasn't important, fed Watson the 'violin and don't speak for days' line, then. He would know—it'd been a joke between them.

Watson looked mildly incredulous.

"Seriously. This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?"

He didn't answer. He simply watched, feeling something between amusement and satisfaction for having forced Sherlock's hand.

"John."

Consummate liar, Sherlock would never change. Lestrade could feel Donovan's disapproval without seeing her face, her voice telling him that Sherlock Holmes would only ever disappoint the people he was close to.

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day and you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational," Watson said, looking directly at Lestrade as if to issue a challenge to all his sort and the rest of England.

Issue away, he thought, smile disingenuous. Some things could be relied upon. Lestrade wasn't the one bothered by the drugs—it was no longer his problem.

"John, you probably want to shut up now."

Dr. Watson had a lot to learn about his flatmate. He didn't envy him the learning curve.

"Yeah, but come on…"

He watched as Sherlock leaned in ever so slightly, jaw tense and eyes narrowed.

It was a rare thing to see Sherlock coming clean. Not that Lestrade really saw since Sherlock had his back to him—a tactic that he recognized immediately. Sherlock couldn't bear to be honest to more than one person at a time.

He saw the moment that the pieces fell into place for Watson. The doctor went still, then looked as though he couldn't really believe it:

"No."

Yes, 'no'. Because who would believe that a man as intelligent as Sherlock Holmes could have an Achilles heel?

"What?"

It was a very rare thing to see Sherlock come clean and so predictably, Sherlock retreated the moment before he admitted to anything. Another tactic—he delivered all but a confession in looks and never words. Afterward, he'd deny that he'd said anything of the sort and technically, he hadn't. Lestrade was certain it was how Sherlock manipulated his mother, perhaps even Mycroft.

"You?"

Here it was. Tactic three: crisis averted, he would then attempt to direct everyone's attention elsewhere, to—

"Shut up—I'm not your sniffer dog."

Direct everyone's attention to Lestrade, apparently. Two could play.

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog."

"Wha—? Anderson, what're you doing here on a drugs bust?"

"Oh, I volunteered."

"They all did. They're not, strictly speaking, on the drugs squad but they're very keen."

A bit too keen. Keen on finding something, keen on disrupting the order of Sherlock's routine (though Lestrade doubted that Sherlock had a routine to disrupt) as he had theirs on countless occasions, including the current case. Keen on making known exactly what they thought of Sherlock's methods of deduction. It was too dangerous to retaliate against Sherlock alone, but with the right excuse and right DI—namely Lestrade, the only person in Scotland Yard Sherlock had ever got along with—they were quite keen. They had all kept their mouths shut out of respect to Lestrade when he'd brought Sherlock in on the case, but that didn't mean they had forgiven and forgotten. Case and point:

"Are these human eyes?" Donovan held up some jar, when previously she'd refused to touch anything.

"Put those back."

"They were in the microwave."

"It's an experiment."

"Keep looking guys."

He was going to leave this flat with the information that he wanted and he wasn't above playing dirty.

"Or you could start helping properly and I'll stand them down."

"This is childish."

That was rich. He kept his voice even.

"Well, I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case and I'm letting you in, but you do _not_ go off on your own. Clear?"

"Or what, so—so—so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"

Pretend drugs bust—and Sherlock was pacing like a caged animal. All the bloody signs, tripping over words—

And arguing. They were arguing again. Arguing like a couple who couldn't remember why they'd fallen in love. But he meant every word—Sherlock knew how seriously Lestrade took the work, he knew that Lestrade meant business. They weren't young anymore, they weren't partners anymore. Five years of brilliance was not enough between them, the reason why it had never worked. So Lestrade pulled his trump card.

"It stops being pretend if I find anything."

Tactic number four, he anticipated. He'd lost count of how many times he'd heard the words come out of Sherlock's mouth. And Sherlock knew it, knew it because he could never look Lestrade in the eye when he said it. Instead, he stared straight at the far wall.

"I am clean!"

There. Right _there._ If he wanted to make this a real drugs bust, Lestrade had everything he needed to know. Sherlock couldn't help but give himself away, not when Lestrade could read him.

"Is your flat? All of it?"

His voice was even, and they both knew he knew the answer. Kitchen, the far wall. He didn't want to know Sherlock's new favorite poison.

"I don't even smoke."

It wasn't a no.

But a nicotine patch—Sherlock _was_ trying, he was making a sincere go of it. His addiction gnawed at him. Lestrade could see it in the restlessness of Sherlock's body, the way he said things without vocalizing them.

But he was _trying_.

He rolled up his sleeve.

"Neither do I. So let's work together."

Sherlock stared, looked away, back at that far wall.

It wasn't Lestrade's problem anymore. He hoped that Watson was up to the task, when the time came.

"We found Rachel."

"Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

He watched Sherlock's face.

"A daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name, why?"

"Never mind that, we found the case. According to someone, the murderer has the case and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

Sometimes, he could do without Anderson. Competent forensic scientist, decent fellow who said all the wrong things at exactly the wrong time. He and Sherlock were like perpetually colliding billiards balls—reacting, reacting, reacting.

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson, I'm a high-functioning sociopath—do your research."

Sherlock took too much pride in that, being a sociopath.

"You need to bring Rachel in you need to question her I need to question her—"

They're not partners. And

"She's dead."

"Excellent—how when where why is there a connection there has to be—"

"Well I doubt it because she's been dead for fourteen years, technically she was never alive."

He could almost see all the theories Sherlock had built in the past thirty seconds collapse to nothing.

"Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

"No that's not right."

He'd never understood, and still didn't understand, why Sherlock would say that the facts weren't right instead of his hypothesis. The facts weren't right or wrong—they were _there_. Induction. Sherlock should really have called it the science of induction.

"Why would she do that, why?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments—yup. Sociopath, I'm seeing it now."

The thing was, before everything had happened, Sherlock and Anderson used to get along reasonably well. Sherlock had relied on Anderson to provide accurate lab results and Anderson had helped in whatever extracurricular experiments Sherlock wanted to pursue. He'd even recommended several texts which Sherlock had devoured in the space of a few days. In fact Lestrade, and probably Donovan, recognized the eyeballs in the microwave experiment—Anderson had conducted a similar one only a week ago.

"She didn't think of her daughter—she scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails."

After everything, his team had closed ranks against Sherlock. He hadn't counted on the animosity. They thought he was mad to continue consulting with Sherlock, let alone put up with his existence.

"She was dying, it took effort, it would've hurt."

"You said that the victims all took the poisons themselves, that he makes them take it. Maybe he, I don't know, talks to them. Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

That had occurred to him, but it begged the question of how the victims were related to each other, if their killer had been familiar enough with their personal lives to use it against them.

Sherlock, of course, had a completely different line of thought.

"That was ages ago, why would she still be upset?"

Lestrade resisted the urge to put his head in his hands. Bloody typical. Watson, on the other hand, had that expression on his face for the second time that night.

"Not good?" Sherlock looked between them, trying to track both their reactions.

"Bit not good, yeah."

His estimation of Watson rose a few notches. Sherlock must have taken Watson's quiet response as some form of assent—he darted forward, speaking in low, urgent tones.

"If you were dying, if you'd been murdered, in your very last seconds, what would you say?"

For Christ's sakes, Sherlock. Afghanistan, yes?

"Please, God, let me live."

"Use your imagination," Sherlock demanded, exasperated.

Watson blinked.

"I don't have to."

He hadn't thought he would—Watson wasn't the sort.

"Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever—Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers—she was clever—she's trying to tell us something."

And there it was. Lestrade could feel it, he could see it in the way Sherlock was pacing, the impatience in his voice. Sherlock's intuition had latched onto something and it was only a matter of time before his mind raced to the conclusion—

"Shut up, everybody shut up! Don't move, don't think, don't breathe I'm trying to think—Anderson face the other way your face is putting me off."

Because Sherlock Holmes, in solving crimes, was always better able to relate to the clever ones, be they victims or perpetrators.

"What? My face is?"

He could set about the task of unraveling their minds, the way they must have gone about their lives and routines, the particular systems of logic they used to govern their world.

"Everybody quiet and still, Anderson turn your back."

He could enter, or recreate, or approximate, what each must have been thinking at the time of death or moment they struck—

"Oh for god's sake—"

—precisely the thing Lestrade struggled to do and relied on Sherlock to reveal.

"Get back, now, please!"

"What about your taxi?"

"MRS. HUDSON!"

And there it was.

She was clever.


	5. Arson

In truth, Lestrade found it baffling that Sherlock enjoyed working murder cases best. Of all the crimes that Sherlock could obsess over, murders were the easiest to solve. It had the highest clearance rate of the major crimes for a good reason—murder was _human_. It covered all the weird and boring motives that a person could commit a crime for, it fed into wide social networks of friends, family, colleagues, bystanders, witnesses. And it was always, as a rule, mired in some very human—read: often stupid—mistakes. People left trails of evidence by existing. Murderers were no different. Interviews along with a good bit of DNA more often than not led to a suspect, a search, an arrest, and perhaps a confession, if the questioning went well.

On the other hand, crimes like arson, larceny, conspiracy, drugs, racketeering—these were notoriously hard to manage because of lack of suspects, proof, witnesses, leads. In short, a lack of everything. Some of these crimes, there was no real investigative method except to conduct a few interviews with the victimized parties and file the requisite reports. Whichever unlucky bastard was stuck with the case might make a go of it in completely piecemeal manner, but most preferred not to deal with the mess at all. That Sherlock favored the crimes that sometimes solved themselves seemed a misallocation of resources, to say the least.

The problem was that Sherlock had absolutely no patience. He wanted instant answers. He pursued cases based on the potential adrenaline high and if he met an impassable complication, three times out of ten he would simply give up. Yes, there was his pretentious bluster about how he liked solving mysteries for the thrill of the intellectual challenge. Lestrade reckoned it was true every fourth Thursday. He wasn't fooled—Sherlock was an adventure seeker. Just the other day Sherlock had run around London brandishing a riding crop because he'd thought that their man was getting away. Then there was that incident two months previous where Sherlock, using previously undisclosed parkour skills, had jumped off the rooftop of a five story building to tackle (that had been the word Lestrade had used in the report, but 'crush' might have been more accurate) the suspect and apprehend him. Lestrade had arrived only four minutes later with the squad and a medical team. He'd been greeted by the sight of Sherlock sitting on the man's chest, looking completely satisfied with himself. Thrill of the intellectual challenge, that's _exactly_ what it was.

The point was—drugs investigations, working to break a conspiracy, corporate fraud, political corruption, human trafficking, smuggling, any sort of high level organized crime that required months of thankless work, surveillance, networks of informants and/or undercover agents, chasing paper, electronic, and laundered money trails, sifting through the morass of raw intelligence, organizing international police cooperation and liaisons between intelligence departments—Sherlock labeled it all as 'Mycroft's territory' and refused to get involved. Whether it was out of sibling rivalry, simple immaturity, or both—as the one didn't preclude the other—there were some cases that Lestrade and Sherlock were assigned to investigate where Sherlock took one look at the details and decided he would spend the day in the lab needling Anderson instead of wasting time out in the field. The first times Sherlock had made this declaration, Lestrade obliged him if for no other reason than the fact that an unwilling Sherlock was a whinging, annoying, more pain than he's worth Sherlock. But as it became clear that Sherlock was avoiding the cases out of sheer laziness and to see how far he could push the limits, Lestrade demanded Sherlock pull his weight in work.

And this was when it became glaringly obvious that Sherlock Holmes was not omniscient. Which was hard to remember sometimes. Sherlock pretended that he was intelligence incarnate and people believed him. Most people were so overwhelmed by how quickly, ruthlessly, and confidently he said everything that they couldn't be bothered to parse the content. Sherlock said he was a genius—therefore it must be true that he was a genius. Lestrade thought it a case of _dico ergo sum_: I speak, therefore I am.

The first non-murder assignment that Lestrade forced Sherlock to accompany him, no matter how Sherlock dragged his feet and insulted, was an arson. The building had caught fire in the middle of the night leaving thirteen dead and scores of charred and injured. There were no witnesses, none of the cameras nearby had picked up anything useful, and the firemen on site could provide nothing except the likely flame instignant and trajectory of the flames through the building infrastructure. They had no doubt that it was arson rather than an accidental conflagration caused by an unattended candle or the like—something about burn pattern intensity on the standing exterior. It was also suspicious that among the victims in severe condition was a key witness to an upcoming prosecution of Sebastian Moran.

Sherlock surveyed the scene, told Lestrade that he knew absolutely nothing about fire and arson, that any potentially useful evidence was likely consumed to ashes, and he was turning in for the night. Lestrade saw the conceit for what it was—Sherlock, in his vanity, was not certain that this was a crime he could solve and like a child prodigy too used to being prodigious, he refused to take up the challenge. Lestrade promptly accused him of cowardice and attempted in the only way he knew how to draw Sherlock's interest back to the crime scene: he threw down the gauntlet. Where was Sherlock's superintelligence if he could solve murders that everyone could solve, but not arsons? What was he afraid of?

The accusation had two effects—it brought out Sherlock's overblown arrogance and exacerbated his underlying insecurity. This was not, as it turned out, a good combination. Sherlock threw himself to the task of designing and executing hundreds of fiery laboratory experiments, including one that almost burned up Anderson's station. Anderson was murderous for weeks afterwards and Sherlock completely unrepentant. He pored over arson cases, scoured the internet for what little information it contained, secretly consulted with a few veteran firefighters—in a word, decided to become an expert of arson within the space of a week. Overloaded with information but without practical experience, observant and keen yet without the aid of his natural intuition, Sherlock floundered. It was to be expected—even geniuses went through a learning curve. And there were plenty of reasons besides why arson was notoriously difficult to investigate. Nevertheless, the case remained unresolved despite his best efforts and Sherlock resented Lestrade for stripping away part of his essential persona. Of course he'd always known that his intelligence was not unassailable—he'd grown up with Mycroft, after all. Sherlock had always felt that Mycroft was smarter, better, faster in ways that he could not compete. That did not mean he liked to be reminded of that fact, nor did he take kindly to this weakness being revealed to those who knew him.

Lestrade didn't understand why Sherlock was so sensitive of the fact that he, like everyone else, had limits. Sherlock never missed an opportunity to insult everyone else's intelligence—why couldn't he swallow some of his own medicine? Also, as a self-proclaimed sociopath, shouldn't he not care about the opinions of others—lack of remorse, disregard for social norms, that sort of thing? Not that he said as much to Sherlock. Lestrade had a sense of self preservation and common decency. He wasn't stupid.

Later, when he knew Sherlock better and was well acquainted with the man's idiosyncrasies, he would reflect that goading Sherlock had not been the best thing to do. Granted, goading Sherlock was never a clever idea under any circumstance, but challenging him in a way that intensified his insecurities was not…bright. Or kind. Sherlock enjoyed puzzles and the stranger the mystery, the better—but he lashed out with malice in his sarcasm when he was not utterly confident. Why and how a man like Sherlock Holmes, whose genius was undeniable, developed this insecurity Lestrade could never confirm. He suspected it had something to do with Sherlock's childhood, though it was hard to imagine—no, actually, it was very easy to imagine Sherlock as a child. No stretch at all. The mere thought was forming the beginnings of a spectacular headache. The point was, given Sherlock's insistence on cordoning off his territory from Mycroft's, given Mycroft's broad hints that Sherlock never spoke to their mother while Mycroft seemed in constant communication, given the conspicuous absence of any mention of a father, Lestrade could hazard a decent guess. Mycroft was protective and well intentioned, but he cast a long shadow.

Lestrade and Sherlock never made amends for this unspoken trespass, but they returned to the status quo soon enough. A few interesting murder cases and Sherlock's equilibrium was restored. Moreover, he realized and grudgingly conceded the point that Lestrade had been trying to make—Sherlock stood to gain something by broadening the repertoire of his study of crime. It would provide another source of intellectual stimulation (to say nothing of the foot-chases) and force him to hone his powers of observation. Sherlock saw the question in terms of music: he preferred to play and study concertos, but every violinist was versed in orchestra and quartet compositions, how to play with an accompanist. The practice could only make him better, and perhaps he might discover heretofore unknown methodologies. That idea played to his vanity.

Thus resolved, Sherlock made something of an effort to impose self discipline and diligence in this new endeavor—and he could always count on Lestrade to prod him if he began to show sign of slack. For once in his charmed life, Sherlock actually worked for his results, producing original thoughts and observations, rather than skating on his natural ability to see, intuit, and deduce. He felt a sense of accomplishment beyond simply being right or wrong or beating Mycroft, and he briefly wondered if Lestrade had this same feeling whenever a criminal was convicted and put behind bars. In the long run, it made Sherlock's crowing of his own intelligence that much more insufferable because this proved he was both creative and analytic, but it also seemed to instill in him a sense of pride rather than mere arrogance.

What was more—he obtained the results working with Lestrade, the two of them sharing ideas and experience. This was new to him, having always assumed that he worked best independently and that another person would simply obfuscate and frustrate his train of thought. He still found Lestrade alarmingly dense, but he could not deny that there were times, not nearly as few and far between as he'd originally predicted, when Lestrade's casual insight had proved to be essential. Wonder of wonders, the DI was actually useful sort of person with the faint embers of intelligence. Perhaps this was what that child psychologist had meant when he'd gone on interminably about 'socialization' and all those trite phrases about 'initiating a significant dialog'. Social interaction had a purpose beyond playing in the endless maze of pointless little niceties.

Their fifth arson case, Sherlock and Lestrade finally managed a suspect, an arrest, and just enough evidence for a proof of guilt. They both worked into the morning hours, revisiting the site and bouncing ideas off each other, ignoring their creeping exhaustion. The break came the seventh morning at early dawn. Lestrade, papers, coffee, takeaway, and terribly stale biscuits covered Sherlock's flat. Sherlock paced while Lestrade chain smoked, nearly setting off the smoke detector himself. And there was their epiphany. The pieces fell into place almost simultaneously as they finished each others' sentences and ran about the room collecting bits of paper to check, and double check, and check again the purchases made on the twenty-fifth, Burrell's alibi, the soot distribution, Anderston's findings from the lab. Lestrade called Donovan and attempted an incoherent explanation—the only thing she remembered of the conversation the next morning was the eerie sound of Sherlock's sleep-deprived laughter in the background.

The high from solving the case was wonderful. It was better than anything he could have asked for. Not only did they solve the arson but Burrell had led them on a merry chase in the outskirts of the city. Lestrade had even fired his weapon—which he usually didn't bother carrying, but Sherlock had persuaded him that they would need it. While they were driving back down to the station, Burrell firmly in custody, Sherlock asked if he could have his own sidearm. Lestrade, high as Sherlock, had almost said yes. Then remembered exactly who was asking and very nearly exploded. Sherlock laughed and shrugged, saying that he'd only been trying his luck. Lestrade proceeded to give him a dark look, then surprised Sherlock with the offer to train him in the proper use a firearm. If he was interested. Because he might need to defend himself. It was a dangerous line of work, the skill could prove useful someday. Sherlock, temporarily descending from his euphoria to scrutinize Lestrade's profile, agreed. Lestrade exhaled, unaware that he'd been holding his breath. The moment felt significant to them both, charged with a gravity that was incongruous with their barely contained giddiness. It was a relief when it passed, and before long they were ribbing each other as though it had never taken place.

Two days following the arrest, Sherlock and Lestrade were still high off the case, so they went out for drinks. Lestrade finally felt, holding a pint and laughing at Sherlock's observations of the pub's clientele, that he and Sherlock were an investigative team. This assignment could work. They ate, drank, fairly exalted in their victory, relaxed and sharing jokes. Lestrade was frankly shocked that he and Sherlock had jokes to share—they both favored black, sarcastic humor, Sherlock scathing and Lestrade morbid. He noticed too that Sherlock was visibly enjoying himself, that he was less self conscious and less neurotic. The man even went so far as to flirt with the barkeep (Lestrade had long suspected but refrained from asking), and by the end of the night, he'd collected quite a few numbers and offers. Instead of looking for a hit as he typically did, Sherlock went and had himself a very good shag. Lestrade also went home with a pretty thing on his arm, performed to the satisfaction of both parties, then caught up on some much needed sleep. He didn't bother to restock his pantry.

But it wasn't long before Lestrade was back to the grindstone and Sherlock crashed. Lestrade was already used to the grim reality that crime did not stop because one successfully closed a case but for Sherlock, the repetition took on existential proportions. Every day, there would be more of the same petty thefts, idiotic murders. The world spun on its axis with terrible regularity and the human race went about its business repeating the same strokes over, and over, and over again. His methods, unusual as they were, were gaining credence among the other DIs and attracting the attention of Scotland Yard's higher ups. Normally the recognition would flatter him, but he realized that his science of deduction would be put to use by the same shabby, boorish, dense people he absolutely detested to solve the most mundane and insipid misdemeanors. It was like listening to brainless children butchering Mozart on cigar box violins.

He couldn't stand it.

So Sherlock turned to what he'd always relied on—he got high again. He got so very, dangerously high that he found himself at the hospital with Lestrade's ghastly face in his immediate and slightly blurry field of vision. Taking in his surroundings and Lestrade's expression, the only thing he could think of at that exact moment was that he was dreadfully out of practice. He hadn't thought his dose—or strictly speaking, doses—that potent. Sherlock's first words to Lestrade were not of apology or even explanation, but his strange attempt at reassurance that he would not make that mistake again. Hospitals were an unpleasant business and he wasn't suicidal, at least not in the depressed sense. Dying of boredom was another thing. Speaking of which, when would it be convenient for Lestrade take him target shooting? He hadn't forgotten the offer, he assumed it was still standing. And it couldn't be bloody helped that Mycroft probably knew all the particulars of his latest adventure with the intravenous drip, but Lestrade was not to let him through. Was that clear? Not a sign of that damned umbrella anywhere. He'd throw a fit—that was a promise. Were there any new cases?

Incoherent and muddled, yet as he'd always been—obsessed. He didn't miss a beat. Doped to the gills, Sherlock was going to feel the second crash again soon. Lestrade hadn't meant to hang around as long as he had, but he did and by then it was too late. He witnessed Sherlock sweating and shaking and cursing everyone on sight, moaning for gods please, another hit, another fucking hit, what did a person have to do to get one more bloody hit in this fucking cacodemonic hole!

And for some reason Lestrade realized that that was the moment he should walk away. It wasn't because of the drugs. Strangely, he found that he didn't care about Sherlock's recreational activities. He wasn't put off by the sight of Sherlock going through the shocks—they dealt in corpses, after all. But, it _was_ the drugs. And the arson, and the crimes. It was that flash of intuitive understanding that that Sherlock was rather like a fire himself, consumed by his genius and likely to consume all those who would try to help him. He was intelligent enough that he could learn to play by society's rules. His observant nature made him a natural mimic and when he put in the effort, a passable actor. But it did not follow—it would _never_ follow—that he would live to abide by those rules. Use them, certainly. Bend them, without doubt. Sherlock would, and always had, obeyed the laws at his convenience, and it was convenient that the laws usually accommodated him. But never would he believe that he should be limited by them.

That moment, Lestrade stared at Sherlock, warped with addiction, and wondered why he was solving crimes when he had all the makings of a perfect criminal.


	6. Serial

He didn't know.

Lestrade preferred honest answers so he would give him an honest answer: he didn't know. He also didn't know why he gave an honest answer when a lie could have served his purposes just as well. Perhaps it was because he felt the answer didn't actually matter.

A year or so into their partnership, Lestrade realized what Sherlock had always thought patently obvious—he was a criminal. He'd hacked MI5 on a whim, he'd technically perpetrated a thousand other crimes in cyberspace. At one point, he was certain he'd had the largest botnet in Britain. People were stupid about the security on their computers, just as people were stupid about the noises they left on a crime scene. He'd never permanently stolen anyone's identity, and it hadn't been difficult to amass a pretty collection: master passwords yielded access to bank accounts, emails, stock portfolios, porn subscriptions, personal social networking pages, administrative access to private corporate networks, databases, classified information of all sorts. He'd scoped the security around the LSE servers and planned, in his head, the ways and means by which to bring their operations to a standstill and essentially crash the market. Likewise on how to remotely take control of a US Army satellite. He had been in the process of discovering a means to access some nuclear weaponry when he was secretly arrested and incarcerated—he recalled being mildly surprised that Britain's intelligence agencies were capable of intelligence at all. Mycroft, of course. It was just as well. If he'd become any more bored with the state of things, he might have written up a convenient instruction manual, posted it on a dozen forums and their mirror sites, and watched the world spiral to chaos. It would have annoyed Mycroft and upset his mother, if nothing else.

Lestrade wanted to know why he wasn't a criminal when clearly, he had all the makings of one. The answer was that he didn't know, and he already was—or at least, had been—a very active and dangerous criminal in cyberspace. He didn't carry a phone, never mind a smart phone, because Mycroft had known it would be too much of a temptation for Sherlock to fall back on old habits. The laptop he'd been issued carried a thousand pieces of tracking software that logged every key Sherlock might input. It hadn't prevented him from trying to bypass everything anyway by replacing key pieces of hardware. Not thirty minutes later Mycroft had descended on him and threatened to chain him to the service of Queen and country—or better still, lend him to the Americans in their obsessive hunt for terrorists—if he did not behave. There had been no doubt that Mycroft would make good on his promise. He'd use his Voice.

Ultimately, Sherlock had decided that it the best way to beat Mycroft at his own tracking game was to retaliate. Knowing that some hapless would-be intelligence agent was on the other end monitoring his activity, he set up an elegant program that would select a site and run the worst gay porn it could find. As his schedule was erratic, he programmed the timers to reflect the irregularity. It was simple to modify the same program to give the impression that he was browsing the internet, reading Wikipedia articles and checking BBC news feeds every five minutes. He allowed the computer to become further infected with malware—it would not eliminate Mycroft's programs, but it would slow down the overall performance, produce noise, and interfere with Mycroft's ability to gather information instantly. That gave him a window of time and some cover to develop a second tier of operations, removed from the main applications. He siphoned off processing power from various corners and had almost succeeded in establishing an encrypted internet connection when Mycroft once again paid him a timely visit and made him an offer that he couldn't refuse.

Murders. Mycroft recalled the obsessive power solving mysteries had held over Sherlock when he was a child. Thus, to keep him occupied, useful, and the country safe, Sherlock would solve murder mysteries. That was why he was working with Lestrade on the side of the law, rather than building a life across the line. Mycroft had forced him into a life of relative lawfulness. If anyone was to blame it, was his overbearing older brother. Why Mycroft was such a devoted servant of the government was beyond the scope of Sherlock's imagination, nor did he want to know. Mycroft had always been their mother's favorite.

As for his choice of felony—Sherlock was a criminal, or had been a criminal, or could be a criminal, but his taste in crime didn't run to murder. He enjoyed puzzles, games, encryption, all the things that had made the digital realm a perfect medium for his activities. Murder didn't hold that same kind of thrill. Killing someone and recreating the circumstances surrounding the act were two entirely different activities. One required brains, the other did not. That is, unless one considered serial killers, in which case brains were very much required, and a certain degree of planning, a knowledge of investigative methods and the ability to keep quiet. Serial killing was a fascinating mixture of establishing enough patterns to mark the work as one in a definite and unique sequence, but not enough so as to reveal one's identity.

It was true that his mind had often turned to serial killers. He'd compiled, at the age of twelve, the factors signaling that one was dealing with a repeat offender: method of execution, target victims, time, location, witness sightings, the presence of some sort of calling card, accompanying messages, etc, etc. Naturally, the next thing he'd considered was which combination was optimal for an aspiring serial killer to maximize their murders and minimize the chances of being caught? He'd been inclined to say that completely random victims, times, and locations with a consistent method of killing and some small calling card was ideal, but the fact remained that it was difficult to perpetrate a murder during the day, there were certain locations—particularly cities—where murders were more likely to go unwitnessed, and some victims were easier to kill than others. True randomness was difficult to achieve—it seemed that convenience and practicality forced the creation of unintentional patterns.

Then there was the method of execution itself. It was not easy, though not impossible, to obtain illegally a firearm and silencer. Using that firearm, however, required some experience. Knives were bloody and often necessitated close range, which increased the risk of some genetic evidence being left behind, or possibly even injury. Strangulation required technique and physical strength. Drowning required water in the form of the Thames, a tub, the toilet. Needless to say, it severely limited one's options. Perhaps the easiest way might be to drug a victim and kill them in a controlled environment, then disposing of the weapon, but that might mean possible relocation of the victim, and more time spent with the body increased the chances of a possible witness. A controlled environment would also imply preselected locations. And while it was true that people generally were not observant and did not notice even the most obvious things, people were also careless and fell into making mistakes, not planning for contingencies, panicking when they should keep a cool head. Murder was best committed professionally and without hesitation by those who had murdered before.

In the course of thinking about all these factors, it had always seemed to him that murder and serial killing was more effort than it was worth. Lestrade had choked at the implication of that statement—that Sherlock was not a serial killer because he was too lazy. Nonetheless, it was true. What's more, the puzzle and problems were different and he couldn't imagine them offering any real intellectual satisfaction, not in the same way that algorithms or solving mysteries appealed to him. There was no right answer, only a continuous process of eluding the many mistakes one could make. And one could not tell anyone of one's accomplishments, so where was the fun of that? Granted, there were some serial killers who gladly confessed to their crimes, wanting to be caught. But then the subsequent trial and incarceration took away any opportunity to be a serial serial killer—it was a rather one track career. Serial killing, one had to provide all the variety for oneself, while solving mysteries presented a different and new situation each and every time.

While he was on the topic, he added that Mycroft was much better serial killer material. He had all the patience, secrecy, and brilliance for it. He may even have considered it as a career option before deciding to do whatever it was he was currently doing. For all he knew, Mycroft _was_ a serial killer, only one whose killings were sanctioned by the government and committed in the name of national and global security. Sherlock didn't care either way.

When Lestrade asked whether Sherlock, for all his thoughts about serial killing and the ways to do it, ever thought that murder was a _bad_ thing, he looked at Lestrade and shrugged.

"No."

Lestrade didn't know whether it was good that Sherlock was being completely honest.


	7. Goodness

They solved Rachel. More specifically, Sherlock solved Rachel, insulting them ("look at you lot, you're all so vacant—is it nice not being me it must be so relaxing") as he went through his explanation. He pulled up the screen, Watson sat and watched the computer process while Sherlock told Lestrade to send for the helicopters.

He objected to the helicopters. They had criteria for that sort of thing—man on the run, for example—not that Sherlock cared. They had a lead, so Sherlock thought the situation called for helicopters.

That was Sherlock, always leaping headfirst when he thought he'd come upon the answer.

And then something strange happened.

The GPS said that the phone was at Baker Street.

"How can it be here? _How_?"

They both knew that Sherlock could not miss something as obvious as a phone, and his team would have noticed if there'd been a smart phone anywhere in the flat.

"Well… maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere."

"What, and I didn't notice it—me? _I_ didn't notice?"

It'd happened before, and it could happen again, however unlikely. But his instinct was telling him that there was something else going on. Ever the investigator, he began by covering all his bases, ordering the team to search for the mobile while he and Sherlock thought of alternatives—

"Sherlock, where'd you find the case? Maybe it fell out on the landing or in the hall? Maybe out on the pavement?"

Sherlock was standing preternaturally still.

"Sherlock?"

There was no sign that Sherlock had heard a word he'd said. He was staring in middle space, lost in whatever tides had washed into his mind. Lestrade had seen this before—it looked eerily like Sherlock when he was high. But in the middle of a case? Sherlock Holmes was many things, but he was never still, and as a rule he never dosed on the job. It interfered with his ability to make accurate observations.

"Sherlock?" Watson tried.

Nothing, only some vague hand motions

When Sherlock pulled out a mobile from his jacket pocket, that loose, dazed expression his face, Lestrade's mind began to spin. A mobile. He didn't know if that was Jennifer Wilson's mobile, but he knew that Sherlock never carried one of his own. Watson's mobile? He couldn't be sure. If it had been planted, or if Sherlock had had the phone in his possession all this time—

Suddenly a thousand scenarios jumped to the forefront of his mind. Thoughts raced, mind panicked, a detached part of him that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock told him that at this moment he wasn't rational. But whatever wave of insight had crashed into Sherlock leaving him dumb to the physical world seemed to sweep Lestrade away with him, and the only thing he could think was: what if?

What if Sherlock had finally cracked and decided to try his hand at murder? What if all this time, he'd been stringing everyone along so that they might unwittingly witness the man who had committed the crime lead them to his manufactured solution? What if Sherlock had overcome his laziness and the few moral limits he'd followed and set everything up to amuse himself? And the phone—what if it was a sign that he'd slipped? Lestrade had believed in Sherlock—he'd given up on their relationship and the past lie broken between them but after five years, he'd thought that he'd come to know Sherlock. He'd thought he'd seen something more than mere intellect.

One second and Sherlock was gone. Had popped out to get some fresh air. Lestrade was impassive. He refused to react, refused act on the same impulse that governed Sherlock and caused him to demand helicopters or leave the flat during the crucial moment of investigation. He stopped, examined his runaway suspicions.

Because something else was going on here. In moments such as these when he felt paralyzed by the possibilities running through his head he, unlike Sherlock, always trusted his instincts. His mind was spitting all sorts of ghastly scenarios—it didn't help that he knew what Sherlock was capable of as a chemist, as an actor, as a brilliant analyst and orchestrator. But there was something different, something else, something missing despite the fact that the evidence thus far pointed to Sherlock.

What was it?

He stared at the far wall of the kitchen, recalled the nicotine patches.

And realized that in the moment when Sherlock had said that he was clean, showed he was trying despite the fact that he clearly wanted to fall back into his habit, Lestrade trusted him. He realized that in spite of everything, he trusted Sherlock still—and that perhaps he'd never stopped.

This was, he thought—body uncoiling and mind settling back to its usual slow, steady rhythm—this was the difference between them. Had their roles been reversed, Sherlock would have disregarded the matter of trust and followed whatever the evidence indicated. For Lestrade, however, trust carried a lot of weight. Sherlock wasn't the killer. He could be _a_ killer—the potential was still there—but he wasn't _this_ killer. Not this time.

He collected himself, glanced around. Watson stood at the window—he looked something like a dog watching faithfully over Sherlock. Amazing, considering how long they'd known each other. Donovan was clearly frustrated with this entire ordeal, Anderson angry. Lestrade had the beginnings of a headache. Panic always did that—left a bitter aftertaste.

"He just got in the cab. It's Sherlock, he just drove off in a cab."

Bloody hell. Trust or no, Sherlock was doing a damn good job acting like the killer.

"I told you, he does that. He's left again," Donovan stepped up to him, tense and tired. They'd all had a long day. "We're wasting our time."

"I'm calling his phone, he's ringing out."

"If it's ringing out it's not here," he replied. Stupid, but it was the only thing he could think to say in light of what he'd just been contemplating.

He was relieved that Watson hadn't noticed anything amiss—Lestrade wondered if it had ever crossed his mind that Sherlock could have been (could be) the killer. Probably not. Men like Watson were loyal. He hadn't thought that Sherlock was a junkie, to say nothing of a criminal.

"I'll try the search again."

For what good it would do. Communications with Sherlock really only ran one way—from Sherlock to whomever he was bothering.

"Doesn't matter, does any of it? He's just a lunatic and he'll always let you down and he's wasting your time. All our time."

Donovan looked at him, feelings clear on her face. She respected Lestrade—cared for him, even. She hated seeing him defend Sherlock time and again, she hated the way Sherlock always pulled them in and left them hanging. Because every time, it had never worked. Lestrade never showed it, but somehow she knew.

He gave in. Long day, somewhat hellish. Sherlock wasn't the killer. They'd found the woman's email account and a few other leads. It was enough. Whatever Sherlock was doing taking a cab, it wasn't his business. There was such a thing as trust from a distance.

"Okay everybody," he nodded to her, something collapsing. "Done here."

Cleaning up, resignation. Resignation, exhaustion, annoyance. With everything, the bloody pink case. Annoyed at the panic he'd felt when he's thought Sherlock was the killer, annoyed that it was the bloody nicotine patch that made him realize he hadn't forgotten as much as he'd thought. Annoyed at Sherlock for triggering all those reactions in the first place, then left without a proper explanation.

"Why did he do that, why did he have to leave?" he asked to himself, to Watson. He wanted to know if Watson understood Sherlock any better, or differently. A fresh set of eyes. Anything—new, impressions, doubts.

"You know him better than I do."

He shook his head.

"I've known him for five years and no I don't."

"So why do you put up with him?"

That was easy. He just hadn't been willing to admit it. Hadn't been tired enough, worn down enough, willing enough—it amounted to the same thing, he thought.

"Because I'm desperate, that's why."

Because they could have worked, but never did. He regret it—regrets weren't here or there, trust was not faith, faith lost was faith that could not be rebuilt. Sherlock believed in neither justice nor the law, only what he thought was right.

'Because you need me.' Because implicit within that statement was 'and I need you,' but it was a rare thing to see Sherlock come clean and his wordless confessions weren't enough. Sherlock had never apologized, never admitted he was wrong, and he never would. That was another impasse between them.

Yet somehow, Lestrade found himself making his own truest confession to a man he'd only met earlier that same day. Maybe this was what Sherlock felt around Watson—something about him was steady and reassuring. His jumper, probably. Lestrade was a DI, not the sort to mull over things, not the sort to dwell on things done and closed. Apparently, he still had some last words to say.

"Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man."

He believed that. He was telling this to Watson because he recognized the implicit faith that Watson had for Sherlock—the way Watson believed in his logic, the way he thought Sherlock, flawed though he was, could do no wrong. The beginning of their five years, Lestrade had had the same confidence that Sherlock was someone more than his method. He'd never wanted to change Sherlock, but he'd wanted Sherlock to care about questions of justice, fairness, right and wrong.

"Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think that one day—if we're very, very lucky—he might even be a good one."

Watson looked at him. Lestrade wondered how much Watson could read into his words. Possibly a lot. Possibly nothing. He'd never known what he'd had with Sherlock after all—it was possibly a lot, possibly nothing. Who could say?

Before his post-panicked, half-addled, wrung-out mind could think of something more incriminating (and revealing, and damning, he didn't want to think on it any further), he descended the stairs and headed back to the office.

The entire day felt like a giant blur. Staring at his desktop computer screen, he was sure it was going to be a long, sleepless night.

Case notes, pink cases, Sherlock's insistence on a helicopter, smart phones. His eyes were getting tired and his brain was utterly worn out, but Rachel bothered him. Rachel. Passcodes. If Sherlock were the murderer and Rachel was a huge miscalculation, would he dump the phone? Wouldn't that be anyone's first reaction? Had Jennifer Wilson planted it on _him_? But Sherlock wasn't the killer.

Lestrade sat up.

But what if he was? Not actually the killer, but someone else—someone like Sherlock. She was clever and—it had to be. These weren't typical victims. One high profile, the others with no reason for suicide. The killer must have known their deaths would be noticed, increasing risk and increasing the stakes.

Stakes.

Games.

Murder as a game, cat and mouse with the coppers—it'd been done before, the signs were there.

The GPS.

They'd left before Watson could tell them where the mobile was. If it wasn't at Baker Street, then either Sherlock had it with him in the cab, or… the phone had moved. Somehow. Grown legs and wings. If it was still at Baker Street, they'd have to go back in the morning and search the premises again, properly this time. It might have run out of battery, been dumped. If, too many ifs.

., rachel

Not Baker Street.

Where—?

Rolling Cove Further Education College… not Baker Street. Not Baker Street. Sherlock, or legs and wings.

Watson.

Working on a hunch that he couldn't explain, Lestrade drove back to Sherlock's flat.

To find that Watson wasn't there. Sherlock hadn't returned. They were both out, somewhere, and Lestrade would bet his badge—the one, the other. Mrs. Hudson went nattering on about her herbal soothers and he assured her as best as he could without being rude that she was not in trouble with the law. Watson had reacted—the GPS coordinates. Where there's smoke, there's fire, where there's meat, there's maggots—

Sherlock—that _bastard_. He probably _knew_ that the mobile was going to be at Rolling Cove College, _that_ had been his epiphany. He had gone off _again_, on his own, in the investigation. He was going to find something. Lestrade was torn between calling the squad together again (he could see the pile of overtime slips at his desk, Anderson spitting and Donovan incandescent) to go after Sherlock or waiting until morning to raid the flat again. Why, for god's sake, couldn't Sherlock make his life easier for once?

He sat in the car, key in the ignition.

Sod it.

He started the car.

It could wait until morning.


	8. Greatness

The problem with being a genius was that he couldn't control himself. Sometimes he felt it was all but there, then something happened—he never knew what why how where—and it disappeared leaving him to his thoughts and everything he could see. He could see too much.

Lestrade didn't understand that. Wouldn't understand that, couldn't understand it, there was no difference. Mycroft understood but Mycroft was older and being the older one had been forced to develop more self control for the sake of their mother and maybe even for the sake of Sherlock. Sherlock was his mother's baby, Sherlock was his brother's younger, and when he was feeling particularly cruel and uncontrolled he would blame them for the state of his mind not because he wanted control but because he didn't care so what did it matter. Otherwise he had no problem with the way his mind worked he never had a problem with the way his mind worked it was others' minds he had a problem with and he would never trade his intelligence for the dim world of likes of Lestrade. They said he was crazy but they didn't know anything except the cool and comfort of a mind as soft as a blanket.

He was constantly searching. A mind that thinks needs things to think about so he was constantly searching for new things to look at, new ideas to consider, new ways of seeing. That was the appeal of puzzles, of course, the way they engaged his mind for a good portion of time and kept him away from the white noise that constituted existence. Left to his own devices he was liable to go down some very twisted and dark paths because minds that thought were more often attracted to the depths of things unseen and things people thought unthinkable than the stability and order and tidiness of good, right, moral. It was the difference between staring at the ocean in the pitch dark wondering if one would drown if one jumped into the water and staring at the little suburban houses decaying with tedium lined so neatly like ceramic dominoes. At least that was his opinion but Mycroft always claimed that he simply used it as an excuse. That was rich coming from the man who'd invented the fifty-seven classifications of conspiracy. They were a pair: Mycroft loved conspiracy, Sherlock loved crime.

Crime, because it was one of the few things that seemed to have an uncompromising hold over him. That, and computers, and his addiction. If someone were to ask him what his idea of an ideal life was, he'd say that it was a dark, cold room humming with a thousand processors, a glowing screen and a needle on the side. For a time, that had been the entirety of his existence, staring for hours at the code streaming and imagining the sound of the chips screaming and his mind flying through digital space that he could touch, that he could smell and taste and feel in the back of his eyes. His greatest moments came when his hands were shaking on the keyboard and his eyes darting from screen to screen to screen and the wires tangled under his feet and his face burning but his mind cold, mind focused, mind unlocking all the secrets of an architecture made in thousands upon thousands of lines of code. Those days his university days he was pale, skin almost translucent and his eyes seemed to take on the color of the glow. He forgot to eat, he lost track of the days and slept only when he was unspeakably exhausted, and consumed fifteen varieties of energy drinks, and barely spoke to anyone. Considering that had been his life day to day on and off for upwards of three, six, four years, he thought he was doing comparatively well in the 'act like a normal person' bit with Lestrade.

When he'd had both arms cut off because he called the drugs and the computers the arms of his existence when Mycroft had processors shut needles disposed flat emptied for a trick he'd pulled with MI5 digital security he fell into apathetic stupor. Anyone would fall into a coma sitting in a cell with the days bleeding by and his brain succumbing to rot and mold and mulch and mildew. Mycroft had never been one for chemical addictions. He was passably fluent in computers but he was more interested in networks. Mycroft thought he was doing Sherlock a favor, he thought he was saving his brother from himself, he thought he was being the brother Sherlock needed when he forced him to break his habit, get clean, stay away from the temptations of crashing the LSE. Mycroft thought the impulse control Sherlock had never learned could somehow be taught but Sherlock would have none of it. Lestrade had thought that Sherlock threw tantrums and acted like a child—he hadn't seen Sherlock in the days before.

And he hated it, he'd always as long as he could remember loathed and despised and spat on it, that Mycroft cared for him and always tried to do right by him but always hit the wrong buttons and never made the right mistakes. His brother, who could manage the British government and their intelligence agencies, thought Sherlock was somehow damaged but he couldn't fix Sherlock, couldn't find anyone to fix Sherlock, and became an utter imbecile when it came to anything related to Sherlock and Sherlock never thought he'd been broken to begin with so why on earth did he need to be fixed? He was fine, everything was fine though a bit boring and if Mycroft would just leave him be mind his own matters to go save the world from Russians or terrorists or Indonesian pirates for all he knew Sherlock would not think that he was damaged but feel that he was not. It was a strange conundrum. Mycroft remembered their father. Sherlock did not, nor did he care to. He didn't feel it as any sort of loss because he'd never known what he was missing and Mycroft was an absolute boor about it with his sticky sentimentality and awkward recollections. When they were younger Sherlock recalled seeing Mycroft sneak out of bed to go stare at the photos their mother kept on the mantle. Mycroft would stare at them with such intensity that it looked as though he was trying to commune with the ghost of their father.

Sherlock had never been remotely inclined to join Mycroft's nighttime hauntings and the only time he'd been interested in the figure of their father was when he took it into his head that perhaps his father had been murdered, and that perhaps Mycroft had murdered him. Wasn't that a clever idea? He'd invented an entire and vaguely Oedipal story around it though he knew it to be false. He did it because he wanted to torment the Mycroft simulacrum that inhabited his mind—it sounded too much like a conscience. The Mycroft-of-his-mind (didn't that have a ring to it, like Stratford-upon-Avon) would tell him he should not steal the taffies when he could pay for them with his pocket money, he should not tell the Morrison boy his father was a homosexual sleeping with the gardener's son because it wasn't polite, he should not skin Rachel Cartwright's pet rabbits because cruelty towards animals was frowned upon by society and besides which they was not his rabbits to skin. Sherlock managed to evade such admonitions by telling Mycroft-upon-Avon: "that's quite admirable coming from you—didn't you murder our father?"

It worked every time. Sherlock found that in the eyes of society, nothing was so terrible as murdering one's own father, the man who gave life and flesh and blood. He excused himself from a thousand petty crimes saying it wasn't patricide. Therefore, it couldn't be all that bad no matter what Stratford-minding-Mycroft might say. The few times the real Mycroft caught him, Sherlock looked at him with his unspoken accusation shining in his eyes. Mycroft correctly guessed that the gleam had something to do with their father, but thought it more along the lines of Sherlock resenting Mycroft acting as their father's replacement. Which he did. After Sherlock had read Shakespeare, he took to calling the Mycroft-of-his-mind Claudius and for a time, told all his would-be female admirers to get themselves to nunneries. It drove his mother spare—he was such an odd, uncontrollable child.

When primary school began he became the insufferably smart child who was constantly showing up his instructors. He was always quite popular because he was loud, arrogant, and the pretty sort of boy that would later grow to be handsome. Sherlock had a natural charisma that at once attracted and repulsed people—their reactions depending largely on how he chose to present himself. He always managed to make friends in the sense that he always found other children who were willing to be led by him and play the games he invented, but he was liable to forget their existence at the drop of a hat. There were very few emotional connections—it didn't matter to him the particularities of his companions so much as the fact that someone was there. Ruth, Jim, Catherine, Michael—they were interchangeable. Granted, Ruth was more squeamish than Michael, and Michael had less imagination than Catherine, but Catherine tended to be bossy while Jim was altogether too noisy. His schoolmates were attributed different characteristics in relation to how useful they were to him, but that was the extent of it. He never learned out to interact with people because in some ways, his friends were never people. They could never be his equals in intellectual development, and later he would realize that he was unable to relate to them emotionally except on a superficial level. He was clever, so he hid it, and learned how to use them.

As he grew older and observed better the social rules that governed his world, he often became impatient. It seemed inefficient and more than that, useless. Yet he found that more often than not, he'd say or do something people considered insensitive, abrasive, rude, intrusive, and that such behavior led to considerable difficulties in getting him what he wanted. And it seemed he wanted a lot of things from people all the time—he wanted to borrow Collin's new penknife because he'd had to dispose of his own; he needed George's jacket for the evening—they were similar height and build and Sherlock didn't want anyone to recognize him; Richard had seen something and while Sherlock doubted that the boy was smart enough to understand what he'd seen, Sherlock needed him to keep quiet. The list went on. He had to become more adept at masking his emotional deficiencies, so he studied people intensely. Their faces, their expressions, the intonation of their words, their affect, accents, posture, figure, walk, habits, ticks, reactions, speech, idioms, clothes, accessories, hair, fingernails—everything. He'd always been a gifted observer with sharp eyes and an uncanny understanding of which details were important. As a child, however, he'd never thought to systematize the process. As a teenager, he made it scientifically rigorous.

He became so good at it that people began to think that he was normal and that whatever cutting remarks he'd make were out of an exaggerated opinion of himself. He was Sherlock Holmes, the arrogant berk, rather than Sherlock Holmes, the up-and-coming psychopath. Mycroft was pleased. Their mother was relieved that she no longer got concerned calls from Sherlock's teachers referring to her son as though he were a potential cancer to society. Some of them, well intentioned, had hinted that she take him to see a doctor. One man with absolutely no expertise but enough authority whom Sherlock had somehow crossed told her outright that a bit of shock therapy, or something with heavy sedatives would knock out the twists in the boy, a la _Clockwork Orange_. Mycroft never forgot his name.

But as good as he was at aping emotions, there were some he could not fake, and moments when he slipped. Anything truly deep—grief, for example—he could not muster. They were impossible because they were what he called 'long emotions'—they lasted for a long time. He could mimic for short periods, like a mockingbird singing forty different songs, but sustaining one state was impossible. Inevitably, the façade would break. For a while his inability to do long emotions bothered him—it was a deficiency in his skill set. In the end, he found that it usually didn't matter. By the time someone might discover that he'd been acting—which wasn't often—he already had what he'd wanted. Besides which, people usually reacted to his acting as a breach of trust. He saw that they felt hurt, angry, used. Sherlock, as was typical, didn't care. There had only ever been air between them. He was incapable of anything more.

Still, the show and dance was tiring. People who did manage to get closer to him and know him better were inevitably disappointed with him, or felt betrayed by him. They always wanted something more, as though it were a matter of him not trying hard enough. They couldn't fathom how it was possible that he couldn't feel remorse, or concern, or guilt. He could feel frustration, couldn't he? And happiness? He felt anger and annoyance. They knew he felt satisfaction, interest, desire, worry. So why couldn't he feel discomfort, or heartbreak? The problem was he felt satisfaction with puzzles, not people. Annoyance over logically incorrect answers. Desire towards mind, interest in ideas, fleeting moments of happiness when all his thoughts came in perfect alignment. These emotions were rarely, if ever, in relation to other human beings. He could not identify with them.

When he discovered computers, it was almost a godsend. _Finally_, a place without people. Likewise for the drugs. It stimulated his mind and there were no people. If there were, they were just as lost in their respective mindspaces as he. They had a perverse, blunted understanding of each other—they could relate in as much as they had the capacity to relate. As for crime—he was a natural born criminal. He realized that society's laws weren't in place to protect him from people. They were in place to protect people from _him_.

Was it surprising, then, that he didn't care about justice? When he found himself close enough to Lestrade to realize that he actually liked him (it was a minor miracle, he wasn't quite sure how it had happened), he tried. Justice was clearly very important to Lestrade, Sherlock wanted Lestrade to like him so for his sake, he tried. He wanted to want to care about justice. But it seemed pointless to him—he didn't understand why it mattered so much whether a person was punished for the crime they commit. Crime was simply an action that people had decided to define as criminal, and the criteria by which they decided on something as criminal seemed rather arbitrary. Case and point: a century ago sodomy was a crime for which a person could be taken to trial and punished by the might of the law and today who would ever think to govern the sexual proclivities of people? Therefore, what exactly was it that justice was made of? There were philosophies, there were histories, there were religions and theories of morality, there were ideas about how society would go to pieces if there was no rule of law, if everyone killed each other, theories based on evolutionary biology about how humans as a gregarious species found their survival increased if they lived in groups, which necessitated a code of conduct, which meant murder was off the list, which bled into anthropology and the development of rites and trials and ideas of justice, and sociology, and criminology, and the entire three ring circus of the mechanics of government and law enforcement. It was all so very involved and unsatisfying.

He pointed out that while Lestrade thought of justice as some sort of universal and immutable ideal removed from the subjectivity of human society, the human conception of justice had changed radically over time and it was nothing if not subjective. Justice was predicated on the idea of the rightness and wrongness of actions and _that_ idea, he argued, was merely a complicated rationalization of human emotional reactions. It was a feeling—they _felt_ it was wrong, they _felt_ the criminal should be punished, they _felt_ it was fair. The codification of the feelings in the form of laws came afterwards. It stood to reason, then, that if there was no feeling, there was no wrong. The easiest people to kill were those who had absolutely no one who cared for their continued existence—the crime could never be personal so the perceived wrongness could never match that of, for example, a patricide. The execution of justice was left to the government because society deemed it the system's responsibility to feel indignant on their behalf. Strange, because society also relied on that system to be objective and not to feel, for the sake of passing the correct judgment.

Sherlock could only see actions as having happened. Whether something was fair or unfair didn't change the fact that the act had been completed and there was the body. Sherlock wanted to know how it got there, who put it there, perhaps even why it was there in the first place, but he did not see how any of that affected what happened afterwards. The right and wrong was in whether he correctly identified the killer, the means, the motive. The thrill of catching the criminal was in the chase, not in the conviction and the trial and the sense that it was another victory for the side of law. Which was why it puzzled him some days that he found himself working for Scotland Yard and why, when Lestrade had put the question to him, he didn't know.

Lestrade thought he was a good man. He vouched for Sherlock among his colleagues and superiors at the Yard, he granted Sherlock access to all sorts of facilities and information. He challenged Sherlock's line of thought, but he was willing to listen to what he had to say. Lestrade was sensible—he was forgiving, but he was by no means a fool. He got angry at Sherlock for lying, stealing, cheating, faking, crossing the line, being a right bastard, but he never held it against Sherlock for being unable to function like a normal human being. He rarely took Sherlock's insults personally—he wrote it off as another part of Sherlock's strange personality. It didn't take much to make Lestrade react, and sometimes react explosively, but it took a lot for him to be unforgiving. It was, Sherlock reflected, part of what allowed them to work together. Lestrade thought Sherlock was extraordinary, and extraordinarily human. With extraordinary people came extraordinary problems, and Lestrade was willing to take the whole package and work with it.

No one had ever done that. No one had ever thought to throw Sherlock off his intellectual perch and in the same motion, offer a hand to help him up as though it was all in good fun. Lestrade could deliver a scathing criticism of Sherlock's line of thought (it always surprised him, the depths Lestrade hid under that utterly ordinary exterior of his) and a moment later, say something for which Sherlock had to make a concentrated effort not to laugh. They had jokes. They had _in_-jokes. They shared interests—well, one interest, but since they were both married to the job that one interest took on greater significance. They went out for drinks. Lestrade had a key to Sherlock's flat—there had been one too many mornings with Lestrade banging at his door telling him to get his arse out of bed, they had a murder. They had in-jokes. The mind boggled.

Sherlock's impulses were completely divided with respect to this development. His first impulse was that he wanted to preserve it. He wanted it to last forever. He was well aware that it was a precious thing, rare and not to be squandered. In his experience, people like Lestrade were exceptional. Intelligent, unassuming, open, accepting. Astoundingly patient. With a sense of humor—for god's sakes, it sounded like the perfect advert on a relationships website. But his other impulse—the one he could not control, the one that drove him and drew him and the one he always fell to—wanted to see how far he could push Lestrade before he left. Before something Sherlock did was beyond the pale. His other impulse that made him a manic genius wanted to know exactly how much Lestrade was willing to stomach before Sherlock had well and truly crossed the line.

He tried. He really did. There were so many times, too many to count, when he gave into his impulses and Lestrade became unspeakably angry with him. Afterward he always pulled back, behaved, apologized without apologizing. It thrilled him to see the moment Lestrade took him back, and he basked in the pleasure of Lestrade's seemingly unshakeable faith in him.

But as always, Sherlock slipped. As good as he was at aping emotions, there were some he could not fake, and friendship was a long emotion. Because he was not a good man—merely an extraordinary one who could see too much but could not see justice.

When Lestrade finally understood that, Sherlock was surprised by how it affected him, emotionally. He knew the feeling would pass—it always did. Sooner or later, he'd forget he ever cared, wonder why it had ever mattered. It's how he was built, it was the way his mind operated. But in that moment, while he still felt, he wished desperately that he could remember. That for once in his life, he could have the long emotions of grief, remorse, heartbreak for a friendship that he'd broken. He saw how much Lestrade had lost. Sherlock wished he'd had more to give.

It couldn't be helped.

Time passed. People were murdered.

All was well.


End file.
